


The Jailer Holds The Key

by anotetofollow



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Gift Fic, Opposites Attract, Pining, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:35:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24681649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotetofollow/pseuds/anotetofollow
Summary: Valravyn is not thinking about Liria. Or, at least, he is trying.both Valravyn and Liria belong to the wonderful @brewess
Relationships: Liria Heavenbreaker/Valravyn mac Fiachra
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	The Jailer Holds The Key

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brewess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brewess/gifts).



It is a good night for hunting.

The moons are full and bright overhead, with enough clouds scudding across their surfaces to throw patches of shadow onto the world below. There is enough light that one might walk without fear, enjoying the crisp autumn air and the gentle breeze, particularly in this well-heeled part of the city. The guards in this district of Wyngor wear armour inlaid with gold filigree, and they patrol the streets like clockwork. Here there are no beggars sitting with tin cups on street corners, no starving children hollow-eyed in doorways. Such people are rounded up, removed, turfed into the parts of the city where no lords reside. It saves the nobles the inconvenience of looking upon them. It saves them having to see, to think, to make the connection between their own wealth and this poverty. So it is that no man with a title would think twice about an evening stroll on a clear night, secure in the knowledge that all of the world’s unsightly things have been taken elsewhere.

Such a man would be wrong, however. Even in a place like this, with its broad streets and clean-burning lanterns, there are shadows. There are still places to hide unseen, little cracks and creases above and below where a person might lay in wait, watching, watching.

Valravyn watches now. He has found a spot on the rooftop of an inn, between two chimney stacks, high enough from the street that any who happened to glance up would see three chimneys and nothing more. The slate tiles were no mean feat to scramble across, but they held firm beneath his feet as he climbed to this vantage point earlier in the evening. He can hear the sound of chatter drifting up from the building below, interspersed with the gentle plucking of a harp. If only all of his watches were so pleasant.

He has been sitting on the roof for the best part of an hour now, staring down at the street. The information came to the Shrikes as it usually did; someone told a friend who told a cousin who told a neighbour, and eventually, inevitably, it landed on their doorstep. Lord such-and-such had done something cruel, something awful, something that hurt and harmed. Swap in whatever name you like, the story remains the same.

This time the word had come with another interesting tidbit. Every night, at around the same hour, this particular lord would walk the streets surrounding his estate. Regular enough to set your watch by, always the same route. How very considerate, Valravyn thought, for his mark to be so predictable. If only all of his targets would extend the same courtesy. But still he had arrived early, just in case, and installed himself on the rooftop with its clear view of the city streets. A number of people have walked past already, none of them matching the description of the man he is seeking. Valravyn wishes that the lord would hurry up. His back is stiff from perching on the cold slate tiles, and the waiting is beginning to bore him. When he is bored his mind wanders, giving him time to think of things better left alone. That is no good at all.

But wander it does, settling on — as is usually the case these days — _her_. Valravyn isn’t sure when Liria began occupying his thoughts so often, but it has become such a frequent occurrence that he can no longer ignore it. It has been months since the Shrikes liberated the gladiators from servitude, months since she joined their ranks, and still he cannot make peace with her presence. There is something about her, her stillness, her cold control in battle, the way that strength radiates from her like heat off a forge fire, that fascinates him.

She is beautiful, of course, planes of muscle and bold features and grace, but that alone is hardly noteworthy. Valravyn can find the beauty in almost anyone. It is not remarkable. What _is_ remarkable is the quiet admiration he finds himself holding for her, the desire to know who she is, where she comes from, what she wants. Liria has told them of her mission, the sort of holy calling that Valravyn would usually dismiss as superstitious bunk, but the words do not sound ridiculous from her lips. Everything she says, does, feels, comes from a place of such conviction that even he, marrow-deep cynic as he is, cannot find it in himself to mock her. She is a counterpoint to his scepticism, a weight that lends him balance.

The others have noticed, of course. Tan teases him mercilessly and lasciviously, as is her wont, and Sunny has encouraged him to address his attraction head-on. Yet it is not such a simple thing, with her. She is so different to anyone else that he has known, so immune to his usual charm, that the idea of attempting to woo her is almost laughable. He imagines using his usual lines on Liria, flirting with her as though she were some rosy-cheeked milkmaid, and the very thought of it makes him chuckle. He can just see her blinking at him slowly, that tiny crease appearing between her eyebrows. There is every chance that he would be lucky to escape with his bones unbroken, were she to take offence.

However, it is not the prospect of rejection that discourages him. Valravyn has had his affections spurned any number of times in a thousand ways, and this has never bothered him overmuch. He cannot speak to her as any other because she is _like_ no other. It would be insulting, almost, to pretend that she was. The way she sees the world is so unusual, so different from his own view of it. Valravyn _is_ the city. Its streets are his veins and capillaries, its buildings his bones, its endless throng of life his blood. His knowledge of this world and how to move through it has kept him alive this far, despite the odds. Liria, however, knows nothing of society at all. She has spent her life cloistered, closed off, and such simple things as the exchange of coin and everyday social protocols are beyond her. It would be easy to think her naive and provincial for her lack of understanding — at first, Valravyn admits to himself, this was his assumption — but when one looks closer something quite different reveals itself. Liria has knowing of her own, unimaginable depths of it. Sometimes when Valravyn looks at her he sees it. She stands motionless, the lines of her body poised, her expression alert, her eyes bright and clear. He suspects, in these moments, that she understands things about the world that he will never comprehend. Life speaks to her in a different way, and she listens. It is almost terrifying to behold, sometimes. So many perceive only what she does _not_ know, and so underestimate her. Their mistake.

Valravyn has known many lovers. Broad-hipped women with quick, low laughs and hungry eyes, long-lashed boys and warriors heavy with scars, noble daughters seeking rebellion and veteran spies seeking solace, every shape and shade of body he has known. Some of them he stays with for a few hours, some for weeks, sometimes, though rarely, for longer still. They warm his bed and fill his heart and light his fire. And he loves them, all of them, in their own particular way. Temporary they may be, but never disposable. Even an afternoon exchanged for coin is something to be treasured. Valravyn has a great appreciation for people, and is fascinated by the quirks and charms of everyone he passes the time with. He is observant, perceptive, intuitive. This is how he knows that loving Liria would never be so simple. There would be an art to it that he is not sure he possesses, or even deserves. Despite all their time together he is still learning the intricacies of her. It is a study he applies himself to almost unconsciously, every time they are in one another’s company.

The previous day a handful of the Shrikes had been drinking in the Blue Primrose, as was their habit. Liria had been with them, sitting across the table from him, her straight-backed poise so different from the lounging of those who surrounded her. Several conversations were happening at once, and at some point in the evening Valravyn and Liria had both found themselves talking to no one at all. They were seated too far apart and the racket of the tavern was too loud for them to speak easily, but for a moment their eyes had met in silent acknowledgement. He had lifted his cup and nodded to her, and in return she had smiled. Such a rare thing, that smile. Her expression, usually so still, shifted into something genuine and open. It was like touching stone that had been all day in the sun, its warmth both pleasant and surprising. Eyes crinkling at the edges, their colour calling all manner of things to mind; amber, honey, sweet mead, carnelian, burnt sugar. That smile was like a gift, something given freely and only to him. It had lasted no more than a few seconds but had thrown him off kilter for the rest of the evening, and he had retired uncharacteristically early to a night of fitful rest.

Perhaps it is time to stop denying it. Perhaps ignoring the way he feels is a fool’s errand. But, he thinks, shifting irritably on the tiles, what exactly is the alternative? Liria is single-minded and firm in her goals, and those certainly do not include him. He doubts that her many hundreds of Gods have made room in their prophecies for a tumble with some backstreet assassin. Never before has he felt this insufficient, this pale in comparison to another. It is disarming, vexatious, _utterly_ compelling. Yet still, he cannot let it go. There are moments, when they exchange a few quiet words after missions, when they catch sight of one another across a crowded taproom, when he is sure that the question in her eyes matches his own. It seems unimaginable that Liria should be at the mercy of such earthly desires, and yet, and yet... it has happened too often to be mere fancy. There is a nebulous, formless _something_ , he is sure. Valravyn wishes he had its name, and could claim some measure of control over it.

He is so deep in these thoughts that he almost misses the man entirely. A tuneless whistle catches his attention, and he looks down just in time to see a well-dressed man strolling along the wide street below. The gentleman wears a coat of dark broadcloth, his blonde hair tied into a tail at the base of his neck, and the rings he wears glint gold in the lamplight. This is him, this is the petty lordling against whom Valravyn plays the instrument of revenge. He steps lightly to the edge of the roof and slides noiselessly down the tavern drainpipe, keeping close to the shadows as he leaves the safety of the alleyway and walks into the street proper.

The lord is still whistling. An old song, one Valravyn knows a thousand verses to. _The babe is in the cradle, the raven in the tree, the king is in his castle, the jailer holds the key._ The moons are capricious mistresses but they are his tonight, hiding their light coquettishly behind cloud as Valravyn steps closer to his mark. All darkness, all quiet, he approaches. There is a dagger in his hand, its edge sharpened so finely that a man will not know himself cut until he begins bleeding. One hand on a starched collar, another darting forward, and a moment later the whistling stops, replaced by a low, ugly gurgling.

Valravyn does not wait to watch the lord die. He knows his craft, knows which wounds leave no chance of survival. Within seconds he has returned to the embrace of the shadows, passing by two guards without as much as glance in their direction. Soon he will be home, back in Wyngor’s dirtier corners, back where he belongs, in the comfortable knowledge that the world has one less bastard in it.

Perhaps when he walks into the taproom of the Blue Primrose later that night Liria will be there, her quiet gathered around her like armour. Perhaps he will buy a drink and sit in the seat across from her, perhaps she will ask him where he has been and perhaps he will tell her, perhaps they will talk of the injustices in the world and how they will heal them, together. Perhaps he will return to his rooms alone, and spend another restless night thinking of her smile.

Valravyn has no patience for fate. He thinks that it is the duty of every person alive to forge their own destiny, without relying on false providence. But sometimes — only sometimes — he wishes it were otherwise. It might be comforting to believe that some things were meant to be.


End file.
